by Deborah Hale
“What is it?” He approached her with faltering steps.
The walk to the village and back had tired him more than he cared to admit, and his wounded arm gave a twinge as he thought of the digging he would have to do.
As he drew closer, he could make out a small object resting in the palm of her hand.
“Swallow it,” Maura urged him, “if you can bear to. It will give you strength to dig faster.”
Rath felt his features twist into a look of disgust. It was more than the prospect of eating something so revolting. This was magic—powerful, unpredictable, dangerous. He’d just as soon have tried to swallow his sword. At least he knew what that would do to him.
But how could he refuse after Maura had been willing to consume the wretched stuff on his account?
Gingerly he took it between his thumb and forefinger. It felt like a fat, furry caterpillar. He had not eaten one of those in quite a while. But he had managed to choke them down when there had been nothing else to eat.
He forced his mouth open.
Maura picked up the dipper she had dropped earlier and offered it to him. “You might as well wash it down with what is left in this. The essence of bear will give you strength. The quickfoil potion will give you vigor.”
“Sounds grand.” Rath bolted the wad of bear fur and fat, which tasted every bit as vile as he’d expected.
He followed it with a deep draft of the potion. Fortunately it tasted a good deal better than he’d expected, despite a faint seasoning of charred wood. It kept him from gagging on the other.
“Now, repeat these words,” said Maura. Then she spoke a strange phrase Rath vaguely recognized as Old Embrian.
“Can you not say it?” he asked. “Like you did when you turned me invisible?”
“I can, but the effect will be more potent if you pronounce the spell yourself. Come now, it is neither long nor difficult.”
He did not have time to argue with her. So he muttered the strange words reluctantly, wondering what they meant and hoping some misspeech on his part would not throw the spell awry... making him shrink or go deaf.
“I do not feel any different,” he announced when the incantation was done.
Maura did not reply.
“Is there anything you need?” he asked. “Anything I can do... before I... set to work.”
Offering help felt awkward and unnatural to him. Until now, it had taken every bit of his energy and concentration to look out for himself. He’d had none to spare for anyone else. Rath was not sure he had, now. He felt compelled to ask, anyway.
“You could refill the dipper,” Maura replied. “I will need water for the ritual, to wash away the cares of this world so they do not weigh on his spirit.”
She stared down at Langbard as she spoke. Sorrow seemed to have settled over her like a heavy mantle.
Rath headed for the well, remembering another death, long ago—the last one he had allowed to maul his heart. Deep personal attachments like this were a liability he dared not risk. It troubled him to remember how, only a few hours ago, he had pondered the daft notion of attaching himself to the old wizard’s household.
The life of an outlaw might present greater physical hardships and dangers as a man grew older. But settling down, forming ties with folk, held perils of a different kind that might prove even more lethal to someone like him.
When he tugged at the rope to raise the heavy, water-filled bucket from the depths of the well, Rath gave a start at how quickly he was able to hoist it up. He realized his weariness had eased, too, and his arm no longer pained. Otherwise, he felt nothing out of the ordinary.
That did not allay his wariness of magic.
He hurried back to Maura and thrust the dipper into her hands. “The spell is working. If the tools will hold, I should be able to delve Langbard a decent resting place in an hour.”
Her gaze searched his face, looking for... what?
“Why are you doing this? I know you do not believe in the passing ritual.”
“No, I do not.” That part of his answer came readily enough. As to the rest, Rath knew no more than she did. Only one explanation rang true, though it made little sense to him. “But you do.”
Because the admission made him feel weak and fanciful, he added a harsh order. “So get on with it.”
Maura had studied the ritual of passing, along with all the other rituals, spells, language and legends that belonged to the Elderways. She knew what she was supposed to do. She knew what was supposed to happen. That did not stop her from feeling overwhelmed and unprepared.
It galled her having to accept Rath Talward’s help after he had brought this calamity upon them. But Langbard’s death had made it even more imperative she take up her quest for the Waiting King.
Her guardian had sacrificed all his plans and ambitions to play his part in preparing her for her destiny. Though the scope and risk of all that lay ahead still confounded Maura, she knew she must honor his memory by doing what he would have wanted her to do. Which would mean relying on Rath Talward, at least for a little longer.
Forcing her thoughts away from the outlaw and the sound of his digging, Maura wet a corner of her shawl and washed the smudge of soot off Langbard’s cheek. Then she anointed him after the fashion he had taught her.
On the brow to purify his thoughts. On the lips to purify his words. On the hands to purify his actions. All the while crooning the Litany of Passing that would release his spirit from his body and guide it back to the Giver from whence it had come.
The ritual words served another purpose, too, freeing her spirit to journey part of the way with Langbard. Along the path to the next world, he would unburden himself, bequeathing to her any memories, skills or knowledge he wished to leave behind.
Come my dear, said Langbard, we have not much time. I set the Xenoth chasing a false trail, but I fear they will not be fooled for long. By the time they return, you must be as far from here as you can get. And mind you cover your tracks well. I expect Master Talward knows all about that. Bless the Giver for sending him to us.
Bless the Giver? Had dying addled Langbard’s wits? If not for Rath Talward...
No, Maura, Langbard chided her. It is we who brought this danger upon him, not the other way. The Xenoth have discovered there is something afoot that threatens them. They do not know what the threat is or how it will come about, but somehow they learned of my involvement and my whereabouts.
That meant...
You must be very careful. The forces arrayed against you are powerful and vigilant. They will do anything to hold what they have taken... and what has taken them.
If only he could come with her.
I will. In my own way.
With that, a swift-flowing stream of memories swirled in Maura’s mind and heart. She saw the Oracle of Margyle, felt the sense of thwarted ambition that the seeress’s long ago prophesy had provoked in a young scholar. She saw another woman look up from a scroll. A slow half-wary smile spread across the woman’s face as she met a new look in the eyes of the man she had despaired of ever caring for her.
Maura’s heart gave a lurch as she beheld a young woman cradling an infant, with an air of wistful joy shadowed by deep anguish. Langbard’s unacknowledged love ached within Maura as she watched her beautiful, doomed mother and absorbed a few of the memories she had passed to him.
With the sensation of her hand clasped in Langbard’s, Maura wandered farther abroad in spirit than she ever had in body. Together, they crested Pronel’s Pass under the looming shadow of the Three Castle Mountains. They waded through the tall waving grass of the Southmark steppes as a great cloud of star moths fluttered into the air to begin their northern migration. They stood on the sandy western shore of Galene, watching the sun set beyond the horizon of the Sea of Twilight.
Bits of lore. Spells he had meant to teach her. Properties of plants not native to Norest, but which she might encounter on her travels. All these now became part of her, as if she had expe
rienced every one first hand. Much as the passing ritual enriched her, Maura dreaded the moment it must come to an end. Then all she would have left of Langbard was this part of himself with which he had endowed her.
“Maura!” Rath’s urgent whisper accompanied by his rough grip on her shoulder, wrenched her spirit from its wanderings.
Suddenly she was back in the garden behind the burning cottage, kneeling beside Langbard’s lifeless body, with Rath hovering over her.
She resented him intruding so abruptly on her final farewell. “Are you finished already?”
“Almost.” His hold on her arm slackened. “But that is not why I roused you. There is someone skulking about.”
An unnatural edge of fear in his voice made Maura’s blood freeze. Anything that unnerved a dangerous man like Rath Talward must be menacing, indeed.
Chapter Seven
WHATEVER STALKED THEM was still out there. Every one of Rath’s quivering senses told him so. Why did they not strike and be done with it?
Had Langbard put up enough of a fight to weaken them or at least make them hesitate to attack again? Or did they want to toy with their next victims, relishing the fear they inspired? Whatever the reason, he must seize this meager opportunity and turn it to his advantage.
Clutching the hilt of his sword tight, he brought his lips close to Maura’s ear. “Have you anything in your sash that might bind or befuddle them long enough for me to strike?”
It galled him to beg her help. He would have preferred to slip off into the night and pretend the past few days had never happened. He yearned to reclaim his old straightforward life in which nothing mattered beyond keeping himself alive, free and fed.
But he had made a bargain with Langbard. Now Rath discovered that having given his word meant something to him after all. The old wizard’s death did not release him from his pledge. If anything, it bound him more firmly than ever... to Maura Woodbury.
Somehow, he must get the wizard’s ward safely to her aunt in Prum. Whether she wanted his company or not. The first step on that journey would be to escape from Windleford with their lives. For that, he needed her help.
Maura gave a barely perceptible nod in response to his question. “What good will it do? In the time it will take me to recite the spell you could strike... or they could.”
Her lips hardly moved as she whispered the words. Rath had seen small animals paralyzed with terror—Maura reminded him of them.
“What if you say the words before you do... whatever it is you do? Would the spell still work?”
Maura turned her face toward him. “I s-suppose it might.”
She looked so vulnerable, so steeped in sorrow and fear, a compulsion to protect her took possession of Rath. One that had nothing to do with his promise to Langbard.
“Even if you said the words very quietly—whispered them under your breath?”
“Perhaps. I’ve never tried it. I’ve never had to.”
“Well, you do now.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “In a moment, I want you to stand up and walk toward the bottom of the garden. When you pass that bramble bush, recite your spell, then turn and cast it.”
He doubted whatever she did would hold or daze one of the Xenoth for long. He had no illusions that her gentle, capricious vitcraft was any match for their powerful dark sorcery. “I will come along behind you to finish the job.”
“Very well.” She stared into his eyes with a fierce concentration, as though she feared her resolve would shatter if she looked away.
All her life, she had been sheltered from the harshness and dangers of life he knew too well. Little wonder if the violent swiftness of recent events had overwhelmed her.
“If they are watching,” he said, “I do not want them to suspect anything. In a moment, I am going to hold you close, to make it look like I am trying to comfort you. Use that as cover to get whatever you need from your sash. Do you understand?”
She nodded. Her eyes were no longer so swollen from crying. But they were wide with alarm. Was she more frightened of the Xenoth? Rath wondered. Or of him?
Not that he cared.
He kept telling himself that as he gathered Maura into his arms. Or rather, his arm.
Since he dared not release his sword, he settled for wrapping his left arm around her shoulders and pulling her toward him. Maura did not resist, but bowed her head until her brow rested against the hollow of his shoulder.
For a moment, Rath forgot the true purpose of what he was doing. Nothing seemed as important, just then, as holding Maura—imparting with the warmth and strength of his embrace what he could not put into words.
His regret over Langbard’s death, and his lost opportunity to know the old wizard better. His determination to fulfil the promise he had made. A strange but powerful connection between the two of them that he had been loath to acknowledge.
From the moment they’d met, he and Maura had rubbed each other the wrong way. Just as two pieces of flint scraping together struck sparks. Mishandled, sparks could ignite the kind of blaze now consuming Langbard’s cottage. Tended properly, they could kindle valuable light and warmth.
Scarcely aware of what he was doing, Rath let his head cant sideways, until his cheek rested against the crown of Maura’s head and the smooth, chestnut tendrils of her hair. Her nearness made him yearn for so many things he’d convinced himself he did not want.
Maura began to fumble in the pockets of the sash. That subtle movement stirred Rath from his seductive, risky musings.
Lifting his head, he clutched his sword tighter and swept the area with an alert gaze. He dared not let his guard down the way he’d just done. Not with danger so near at hand and poised to strike. It shook him to realize how exposed he had left himself to attack.
“Ready?” he asked in a sharp whisper.
Maura nodded, her head rubbing against his shoulder in a precarious caress.
“Good. Let’s go, then, while we still have a chance.” It cost him such an effort to release her, that when the force of his will overcame the resistance of his inclination, he fairly jerked Maura to her feet and shoved her toward the foot of the garden.
Giving her several steps lead, he followed, hoping whoever was watching them would have as much trouble keeping their eyes off her as he did. For then they might not notice him following, blade in hand.
As she took those final steps past the bramble bush, Rath noted the subtle change in her movement, gathering itself to pivot so she could cast her spell. His own muscles tensed to smite a killing blow with his sword. He knew better than to hope for a second chance if he fumbled the first.
Maura whirled around. Something left her hand to fly through the air. Rath swung his sword.
A cry rose from behind the bramble bush.
“No!” Maura threw herself toward the sound.
Rath’s sword whistled through thin air, over the heads of Maura and whoever she had knocked to the ground.
He growled an oath—the vilest one that came to mind. Raising his sword, he barked at Maura, “Get out of the way, blast you!”
Her head snapped around. The way the fire reflected in her eyes made Rath fear she might strike him dead with her glare. “Put that thing down! It is only Newlyn... our neighbor from Hoghill Farm.”
She rolled off the man who lay motionless beneath her. “I am so sorry, Newlyn! We were afraid you might be... someone else.”
She began to intone the spell that would unbind him.
The farmer struggled against his invisible bonds. “Sorsha sent me to find out if you were all right. We could see the fire. What happened?”
Rath did not give Maura time to answer. He had a few questions of his own that demanded for answers. No man provoked his fighting instincts to their present raging pitch without paying a price.
“If you meant us no harm, why were you skulking behind the bushes?”
“Trying to reckon if you might do me any harm.” The man shot Rath a black look as he sat up. “I
reckon I know the answer to that, now, Master Ralf from Tarsh.”
The bite of mockery in the fellow’s voice told Rath he saw through that ruse.
Scrambling up from the ground, Maura offered Newlyn Swinley her hand. “We would never have tried to hurt you, if we had known it was you. We are not certain what happened, either. When we got back from the village, the cottage was burning and Langbard...”
Her voice choked off.
Newlyn nodded toward the wizard’s body. “I was afraid of that. I’m sorry, Maura. He was a good man. Dunno what would have become of me without him and Sorsha.”
Maura made an obvious effort to regain her composure. “Langbard had every confidence in you, Newlyn. I know he admired the way you were able to put the past behind you and start a fresh life. You and Sorsha have repaid any help he gave you many times over.”
“Was it the fire killed him, then?” Newlyn’s heavy dark brows knit in puzzlement. “The smoke?”
Rath shook his head. “I think it was more than that. I found a metal wand with a spent blood gem.”
Newlyn shrank from the words as if from a threatened blow. Whatever “old life” he’d left behind, it must have involved some contact with the Xenoth. Rath wondered if he pushed aside the farmer’s long dark hair whether he would find a telltale brand from the Blood Moon mines on the back of his neck.
“That is why Maura and I ambushed you.” He made no apology for their actions.
If this man had escaped the mines, Rath knew he would not grudge their caution, even if it might have cost him his head.
“We must get away from here,” added Maura, “in case whoever did this comes back.”
“Your pony is tethered at our house.” Newlyn looked from her to Rath and back again. “From the look of his pack, I would say you were planning a journey before any of this happened.”
“We were,” Rath answered when Maura looked torn about what and how much to tell her friend. What he had guessed about Newlyn’s background stirred a sense of kinship in him, as well as a feeling of admiration... and a little envy. “For your own safety, it is best if we tell you no more.”